


Silver's Bequest

by okapi



Category: Treasure Island - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dub-con for sex when drunk, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Pirates, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Long John Silver teaches Jim Hawkins how to be a wicked pirate.PWP. Silver/Jim. Dub-con for sex while drunk.





	Silver's Bequest

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2019 DW Corsets and Lemons kink meme. The prompt was: _He teaches his pupil how to be a wicked pirate._

“Young Jim Hawkins.”  
  
I started.   
  
I’d gone ashore with the captain and the squire, but they’d soon met the captain of an English man-of-war and, after a meal, had decided to go on board his ship to play cards. I was worn out from the journey from Treasure Island, so they’d left me behind in a room of my own in the quietest inn in port. I’d had a walk and then decided to retire early for the night, but my room, when I arrived, was not vacant.  
  
“You didn’t think your ol’ friend John’d leave without a proper good-bye, did you?”  
  
I frowned. “Leave?”  
  
He sat on the one chair in the room, his crutch propped against a little table.  
  
“Of Silver, you’ll hear no more, my lad, after tonight, and you can lay to that. But I was wondering what you plan to do with your share of the treasure?”   
  
I told him the truth. I’d no notion.   
  
“You don’t think of becoming a gentleman o’ fortune, then?”  
  
“Certainly not!”  
  
“Pity, that. You’ve got all the makings of one, young Jim. Have a glass, and I’ll speak my mind.”  
  
He tapped the little table, where two glasses and an expensive bottle of rum sat.   
  
For a moment, I considered what new treachery the old buccaneer was meditating.  
  
Silver must’ve read my thoughts.  
  
“This here’s good-bye, lad. A spot o’ rum and I’ll be clean out of your life forever.” He raised his arms. “I’m as defenceless as a lamb. A drink and a yarn with my old friend Jim Hawkins ‘s all. Time goes so pleasant in your company, you see.”  
  
I sneered. “Smart as paint, am I, so you’ll talk to me like a man?”   
  
His face, which was always big and plain as a ham, turn as pink as one, and something made me sit down on the bed.  
  
I nodded at the bottle.  
  
“There’s a lad,” Silver said as he poured. Then he raised his glass.   
  
“To you, my favourite son.”  
  
“Cheers.”  
  
The first sip made me cough and sputter, but Silver took no notice.   
  
“I mean no offense, young Jim Hawkins, but upon my word, I reckon you’d make a splendid gentleman o’ fortune. And d’you know why?”  
  
I took another sip, then shook my head. The burn of the liquor had lessened, the warmth grown.  
  
“’Cause you’ve got pluck and smarts. You unwound our little scheme, didn’t you, hiding in that apple barrel? Then you knitted a few of your own. You’ve got your sea legs. You’ve got your bearings. Plenty of good seamen‘ve got those, though. You’ve got fortune, and there’s some that got that, too. But what you’ve got, son, if you don’t mind me sayin’ and I daresay you do, is wickedness.”  
  
I recoiled.   
  
“Now, before you start a-crossin’ me, let me remember you this,” he said quickly before I’d a chance to protest. “What’d you say to ol’ Israel Hands, half dead as he was, when you saw him on the ship?”  
  
I rued the moment when I’d decided to take Silver into my confidence about what had gone into my reclaiming of the _Hispanola_.  
  
“Come aboard, Mister Hands.”   
  
“And what’d you say when he come at you, him a master mariner and you a ship’s younker?”  
  
“One more step, Mister Hands, and I’ll blow your brains out! Dead men don’t bite, you know.”   
  
“And laughed, you did. And then what?”  
  
“He pinned me to the mast with a dirk.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And I shot him.”   
  
I drained my glass. Silver filled it anew.  
  
“You ‘scaped Billy Bones and Black Dog and ol’ Pew, and that ain’t nothin’. You took down Israel Hands, that’s some’in’ else. And you say you ain’t got no streak o’ fortune in you? I reckon there’s nothin’ ol’ John can teach you that this adventure of ours hadn’t—'cept one. Dooty is dooty, and I’ll be blessed but I’m here to give last lesson in wickedness ere I’m on my way.”   
  
My head was swimming. “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” I mumbled as I licked my lips.   
  
His gaze fell to my lap. His voice was a low rumble.  
  
“I seen you makin’ your water off the side, and I’d say you’ve got a cutlass worth seein’, young Jim. Now, why don’t you show it to ol’ John, and he’ll get on with his lesson?”   
  
My prick was, indeed, hardening under his red-hot scrutiny, and I was awash with a relief when it was at last sprung free of its confines and exposed to the cool night air.   
  
“Shiver me timbers, that’s as fine a blade if ever I clapped eyes on!” exclaimed Silver. “Now let’s be rid of all this,” he grunted, making a gesture that took in the clothes which had covered my lower half, “and see this glorious piece, good and proper.”  
  
Soon I was bare from the waist down.   
  
“More?” he asked as he pressed the rim of the glass to my lower lip.   
  
I didn’t say a word, but he tipped the glass slowly, and I drank.  
  
“Now, young Jim Hawkins, you’re goin’ lie back, and your ol’ friend John’s gonna show you how it feels when you get your whistle whetted like a true gentleman o’ fortune should.”  
  
I leaned back across the width of the bed. Silver lurched forward, bracing himself on one side of me.   
  
My prick was standing tall and proud. Silver stuck out his tongue and licked it from base to head.   
  
I groaned.   
  
“Now don’t stand for too much a-courtin’, Jim.”   
  
And with that, Silver swallowed my prick with one gulp.  
  
He bobbed and sucked and wriggled his tongue all along the length of me. Then he reached up and caught one of my hands in his and brought it to the back of his head.   
  
When both hands rested on his head, he hummed, a vibration which went straight to the core of me.   
  
Then that something, the something which’d prompted me to sit on the bed in the first place and not send the old sea dog away with a flea in his ear, that something which welcomed the first drop of rum, that something told me to grip Long John Silver by the hair and thrust into his maw and sing in a dark whisper,  
  
 _“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”_  
  
I jerked into time to the words, then spent myself.   
  
When I’d caught my breath, I pushed up on my elbows at once and looked down.   
  
Silver reached for the bottle and filled our glasses with about a finger of spirit each.   
  
Silver drank his first. “Clears the bitter, it do,” he gasped when he set his glass down. Then he offered me mine but took it from me before I’d drained it.   
  
He turned the glass over and allowed the last drops to fall upon the wiry hair that encircled my flaccid prick, then he tossed the glass on the little table with a clatter and dove head-first, lapping at me like an pup.   
  
“You got all that, young Jim Hawkins?” he asked when he was done.  
  
I nodded.   
  
“Ready for more?”  
  
I nodded again, then grinned. “’S the only wood about you your leg, Cap’n Silver?”  
  
He returned my grin. “Wicked you are, or I don’t know a gentleman o’ fortune when I sees one.”   
  
A good deal of grunting and shuffling followed.  
  
“Now seein’ as how o’ the two o’ us, I’m the only one with a full mast, I’m gonna have you come sit in m’ lap, Jim Hawkins.”   
  
Even in my drunken state, it did not escape my notice that he’d not prefaced my name with ‘young.’   
  
“Now, most o’ the time, getting your whistle whetted’ll do just fine. But once a blue moon, you may get a hankerin’ for this. Turn ‘bout, sir, if you please.”   
  
Something hit the little table. A jar.  
  
When I first felt Silver’s probing fingertip, I jumped.  
  
“Steady on,” he said, rubbing my thighs and coaxing me back into his lap. Then his hands slipped under my shirt to rub at my chest.   
  
My lips parted. A faint moan escaped.  
  
Silver chuckled. “Dependin’ on how much you fancy your par’ner, you can take it slow or quick-like.”   
  
Silver took it slow.   
  
Every time I winced at the burn, he’d rub my nipples or take my bullocks in his hand and roll them like dice. Once, when I cried out, he offered me a sip of rum. He whispered in my ear, too, only scraps of which I rightly remember.  
  
 _“This here is a sweet spot, a sweet spot for an old sea dog to sink his oar in. You’ll stretch, and you’ll take some, and you’ll take a bit more, you will; and you’ll take all of ol’ Silver and beg for more. Why, it makes me young again.”  
  
“Some’s feared of Pew, some’s feared o’ Flint, Flint feared o’ me, but by the powers, I’m feared o’ you, Jim Hawkins. Not the lad in my lap, takin’ my mast like a tart, but the gentleman o’ fortune I sees in the swirling mist, the one I sees, ten years on, raisin’ the Jolly Roger, bringin’ the world to its bloody knees, and offerin’ it his prick to suck.”   
  
“Cap’n Smollett said he’d not go to sea with you. Too much of a favourite son for him. He’s right and he’s wrong. I daresay he’ll never go to sea again with you or any other. But you’ll go to sea again, I’ll swear it. And you are a favourite son, Jim Hawkins. My favourite son, the one I’ll face the devil himself to pillage and plunder and wreck and soil…” _  
  
The room went round and round and round and topsy-turvy before my eyes, and I was brought back to Treasure Island and the sight of Long John Silver burying his knife to the hilt in the body of an honest seaman. Bells rang. Distant voices shouted. And the panting, Silver’s ragged, mariner’s wheeze, was the same.   
  
Silver’s knife was buried to the hilt in me, and I was just as defenceless as ol’ Tom. Silver bounced me in his lap, and I was certain he would split me in two.   
  
It wasn’t until his hand brushed my prick that I even realised I was hard again.  
  
Surprise registered in his voice, too.  
  
“Well, ain’t that some’in’? What’s your pleasure, Jim Hawkins, once I’ve spilled m’ pieces o’ eight?”  
  
The something returned, and I recognised it for what it was.   
  
Wickedness.  
  
“I’ll be returnin’ the favour.”   
  
A full-body shudder went through Silver, and he pissed his hot seed.   
  
I took him as he’d taken me, but upon the bed rather than in the chair, and, upon reflection, probably with far less care than he’d shown me. Then as Silver would put it, we were ‘stern to stem’ until sleep overtook me.   
  
Silver played with me and I recall at least twice he took my prick in his mouth. I did the same for him at least once. But his fingers seemed upon me, in me, about me, everywhere, until I finally succumbed to the rum, the hour, and fatigue.   
  
I woke to a knock at the door. As I shifted, my whole body screamed with the buccaneer’s song.   
  
_Drink and the devil had done for the rest._  
  
As I stumbled to answer the knock, I looked toward the little table. Not a trace of the night’s debauchery remained. The glasses and the rum were gone, but something had been left behind.  
  
A wrapped parcel.   
  
I knew not what it was nor was I to find out until I was finally awarded some privacy.  
  
It was a flag. A Jolly Roger.   
  
I’ve said that all of us had an ample share of the treasure and used it according to our nature. And, well, that flag’s flying high, right now, overhead, over my ship, the _Favourite Son_.


End file.
